


Sing for the damage we've done, for the worse things that we'll do

by Steamedcola



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (but not for long), Angst, Bad Ending, Hurt No Comfort, Oh, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), festival 2.0, l'manberg done gooffed, no beta we die like wilbur soot, trying something new with the formatting, withers as WMD's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28492146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steamedcola/pseuds/Steamedcola
Summary: With Chat as his witness, here in this coffin at the bottom of the world he promised blood. With blood’s blood matted in his skin he swore it. All transgressions against heaven must be returned tenfold.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 91





	Sing for the damage we've done, for the worse things that we'll do

There are no records of what happened that day, for there to be records there must be survivors, those who stumbled out of the smoking crater where a nation once stood. There must be those who had seen, who could pass on the story, even as whispered legends to children. Be good or blood shall come for blood, be good be good be good.

It was not until nearly a month later that a neighboring nation would learn something was wrong. L’Manburg had from its creation been a troubled nation and so its neighbors had, with the quiet dignity of a cousin not quite sure of that branch of the family, stayed well and truly out the way of its rolling power struggles. But even the most volatile nations need to trade. And so the small folk at the borders would trade with each other, spreading news across the wider server. All along the border the story was the same, everyone must come to the capital, every man, every woman and every child. If you could not walk; get someone to carry you, there would be no excuse accepted for failing to be there. This was where stories started to differ, some said it was an election, that the president was stepping down, some said it was a festival or a funeral to celebrate (condemn) a founding father, others said it was an execution. In time history would decide every version was correct. L’Manburg had already proven itself capable of all these. But this is the end of what history knows for certain. 

Here is what history knows:

  * L’manburg was to hold an event on mid winter day 
    * Every citizen of L’manburg was required to be there 
  * On the day of the Event the skies rained ash and blood and ground itself shook 
  * Where the capital once stood proud, a gash now gaped to bedrock 
    * Unsubstantiated claims state: there are things still spitting fire and blood at the bottom of this hole in the world, there are thing that hunger for blood
  * There was no survivors 
    * Bones are sometimes still found, stootstained, hundreds of blocks from the believed epicenter jutting like teeth, like a reminder from an earth that will not forget, even as it cannot speak of it 
  * The land where it once stood is cursed, no crops shall grow, no animals will make home in the ruins (pigs last longer than most though)



Here is what history doesn’t know, here are the things the eyes saw but can never tell. Here is the story of the fall, of a cycle of violence so vicious it could only end one way. Here is the story of blood. 

  * There was an execution, it was supposed mark the security of the nation, to bring to heel the danger lingering at the northern border. 
    * The execution failed. It could never succeed. The child of blood was a son of death, was treasured and chosen. No God of blood would let its champion die in a cage, like a pig at the slaughter
  * The angel of death had shown where his loyalty lay
  * The angel of Death had shown itself to be _sympathetic_ to blood, for better or worse none of the cabinet would learn just how _sympathetic_ death was to blood until the story had been set. 
  * The puppet master had shown their hand 
    * Tommy had been such a great toy for the puppet master, so loud and just so _responsive_ and he finally had the toy all to himself. But he’d pushed just a little too hard at little too fast, and he broke poor little Theseus and forgot to put him back together. And well the first war had buried the bonds of family deep, but broken down the child of the nether would return to what he knew best. His father stood with clipped wings in a nation that ordered him dead, his first brother could offer him no more than the temporary relief of blue. So Theseus set his path north. To the brother he hated, but who would not kill him. 
  * The execution had woken the Champion of blood. 
    * Technoblade was the last of Blood’s chosen, as such this endless hunger had accepted his desire for a quiet existence, the legacy of blood was safe enough to let this champion rest. But when the champion of blood was dragged from his home, was slaughtered in a cage, blood **_roared_** for retribution, and with his own brain still smeared down his shirt the champion had no reason to disagree. 
  * The puppet master wanted his toy back, the puppet master was going to take back his toy. 
    * The toy was not a toy anymore, and blood had already lost one brother, it would not accept losing another 
  * The puppet master, with all the power of a God, was dead.



This is where events become blurred, even to the eyes of the end, ever watching as they are. 

Something foul had occurred, an omophagia of a tyrant’s remains. His blood spread across the land, spilling from a still beating heart. -And those who change shape the easiest are the most impressionable.

This is the last thing the eyes see of this nation, for when the dust slows to eddies on the wind they do not look upon a nation anymore. They look upon a chasm, an inverted monument to hubris: They see the puppet behind the president cut the wings from the angel of death. Left the angel broken and bleeding at the bottom of the vault. One more secret to keep his country safe. After all the angel had thrown his lot in with the child of blood, why shouldn’t his wings be torn from him, why shouldn’t he be left here to rot in the dark and forgotten corners of Pandora's vault. They see this, and they weep for the child of the end trapped in a web of the puppet masters strings. They know what must follow, blood calls for blood.

And when the child of blood found what remained of death’s angel he would grant to his father the same mercy granted to his brother. And as this child of blood stood above his fathers cooling corpse he spoke unto the voices, those who had been with him since the first gladiatorial games. He spoke, and he promised unto his God a feast. With Chat as his witness, here in this coffin at the bottom of the world he promised blood. With blood’s blood matted in his skin he swore it. All transgressions against heaven must be returned tenfold.

The champion carries home the corpse of a man he wished to call his father. He carries him home, to the memories of an empire they built together. He lays him to rest, the child of nether at his side. And the child soldier, once too young and now far too old, turns to his brother. He asks for blood, he asks for dust, for this nation that had been his everything, that had taken everything be unmade. 

So the champion leads his brother past their fathers grave and he shows the soldier the vault. And with greedy hands they set out to burn the world.

Withered skulls laying heavy in their pockets they set out. This festival makes it easy. The child of the nether mourns for a moment as they begin to start the end, he mourns for the friendships he once had. The champion mourns a longer moment, he does not mourn for the friendships once held with traitors, he mourns for the smallfolk, for the people whose only crime is belonging to the nation. To himself he acknowledges that these people are innocent, that they too are being used by the government. But this is war and if people get caught in the crossfire? Well they get caught in the crossfire. 

The president steps up to the podium, he thanks the people for coming, thanks them for their support. He begins a sentence with the word peace- 

and the world explodes. 


End file.
